


do it in the dark (with smiles on our faces)

by manicpanicaftermidnight



Category: Waterparks (Band)
Genre: Established Relationship, F/M, Fingering, Fluff and Smut, Kitchen Sex, Sleepy Cuddles, Smut, Vanilla, doing it with the lights off, its admittedly quite sappy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-22
Updated: 2020-10-22
Packaged: 2021-03-08 19:27:15
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,148
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27151766
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/manicpanicaftermidnight/pseuds/manicpanicaftermidnight
Summary: After attending a milestone celebration for Waterparks' first platinum certification, you neglect to turn the lights on upon returning home.He’s mostly a shadow before you, the dark of the room causing your head to swim, but when he works a hand over himself, you can tell from the high little sounds in the back of his throat that he’s leaking for it.
Relationships: Awsten Knight/Reader, Awsten Knight/You
Comments: 2
Kudos: 34





	do it in the dark (with smiles on our faces)

**Author's Note:**

> Defining characteristics of the reader: wears a dress, tights, kitten heels. Doesn't join on tour with Waterparks. Is in an established relationship with Awsten. Has a vulva. No real dom/sub dynamics. I don't think I used any pronouns for the reader? 
> 
> Very very slight blink and you'll miss it content warning for some light consent issues, basically just an implication that verbal consent isn't always needed since they know each other so well. Some subtext-y consent is given. Consent is verbally clarified at one point in the story, too, though. 
> 
> This is my first attempt at a real smut piece so I'm shaky at best, although I hope to post a couple more and with any luck I'll improve with each new piece.

“Is this our exit?” he asks, voice soft. 

It reads 1:42 AM on the dashboard clock, the numbers lit up in an artificial blue. You watch the light paint his face pallid. Gentle California hills sprawl out around you, and the backdrop is comforting, soaked in the inky cover of night.

You twist the diamond stud in one ear, the stone sharp against your fingertips. “Yeah, this one.” 

He hits the turn signal, and you count the clicks like a beating heart. “Do you feel any different?” you ask. 

The two of you are heading home after a big celebration for Waterpark’s first platinum record certification. It was an event that called for a bit more than a usual party for something like an album release or sold out tour. Someone in management booked an intimate party venue a little out of the way. Everyone involved in the business side of Waterparks was there, along with everyone who worked on the production process. It’s a lot more people than you’d think, especially with plus ones. Your toes ache in your kitten heels, so you kick them off. The carpeted car floor feels slippery against your tights.

“The thing about it is, and you know this because you’ve been along for the ride, is that it hits less as this immediate gigantic milestone and more as, like, a well-needed confirmation that what you’re already doing is good. Like, when I got the news it absolutely was a big moment with a lot of emotion, but really, stuff like that, going platinum or whatever it is, it doesn’t happen by accident. If I had thought that in a million years that the album couldn’t have hit platinum, I wouldn’t have put it out.” 

“It is a great album.” You say it just to get a rise out of him, smiling to yourself. 

His voice gets higher, exasperated. “It is a great album! It’s the best album! Should’ve been gold!”

You watch as he moves with his words, shoulders raised with alacrity, the freckle on his neck just barely peeking above his white collared shirt as he speaks. Conversations are always a full body performance with him.

He shakes his head. “It is insane though. I can’t think too much about it, it’ll freak me out.”

You watch the re-realization settle over him, the revelation still fresh and dreamlike.“I never stop being proud of you, you know.”

He shrugs, a smile pulling at the corners of his lips. “I guess I know. I do know.”

When you make it home, it’s well past dark, and the sight of the quiet apartment calms your tired eyes. You follow him to the kitchen, where he pours a glass of cold water for you before making one for himself. You neglect to turn the lights on, as a couple strands of fairy lights strung up throughout the room shine bright enough for the task at hand. Sometimes it’s nice to revel in the calm of dark. 

“Thanks,” you say, taking the glass from his hand.

“No probs,” he takes his rings off, setting them in a pile on the counter, and lets the moment simmer in silence before speaking again, “are you feeling tired?”

His voice, you note, has dipped into that headier register, where what he says is seldom what he really means. There’s a deeper question at hand, and the air feels charged with it. 

“I think I have a couple more hours in me.” It’s difficult not to sound coy yourself, but then again, why try to hide it?

He turns to face you head on, variegated eyes swirling in color but steady in their resolve. “That’s good.”

He’s in a structured blazer, a silhouette you don’t see him in often. Against the dim backdrop, he’s all outlines, lithe and lusty. It’s a little intoxicating.

“Can you help me with the zipper?” you ask, fiddling with the collar of your dress. 

“Sure can,” he says, gathering your hair to one side of your neck with skilled fingers and pressing a couple open-mouthed kisses to the back of your neck. Slow and soft. 

One of his hands slides to your waist while he takes his time unzipping your dress with the other, pressing more and more kisses down your center back as he does so. His mouth is still cold from the icy water.

He speaks his words close to your skin. “I know you wore this dress because it drives me crazy.”

And it’s true. It’s his favorite dress on you, its main purpose is to be unwrapped rather than to be worn in earnest. 

With the dress unzipped to your mid back, you bend to roll your tights off, pressing your ass back into him as you do so. You can feel him, half hard against his fancy tailored pants. 

“What do you wanna do about it?” you tease.

He lets out a harsh breath, reaching to grip your waist hard and turn you around. In another swift move you’re lifted to the kitchen counter, the inside of your bare thighs pressed to his leather belt, to the soft cotton at the waist of his white button up. No time is wasted in pressing your open mouths together, in giving in to the push and pull that naturally arises between bodies held close. Your legs close around him on instinct, shifting until the bulge in his pants slots right where you want it. There aren’t words to put to it, the taste of his mouth, a sensation so unique to him that you could salivate just thinking about it. It’s so nice to have this again. 

He moves to kiss down your neck, your half exposed collarbones, and you’re overwhelmed with the notion. “I love kissing you,” it comes out mindless, almost slurred, and for a moment you’re a bit embarrassed with yourself. 

He laughs with his head leaned on your shoulder, his soft hair tickling the skin there. “I love everything about you.”

“You’re the love of my life,” you say. 

He hums, pulling down the front of your dress to paint your chest with kisses. “You’re my sweetheart princess valentine.” There’s no rush when he goes to unclasp your bra, fiddling with the elastic and tracing mindless fingertips across your back. 

Humming in response, you take the quiet moment as an opportunity to reach for the collar of his shirt and start undoing the buttons there.

“You’re my hoe.”

He laughs at that, but cuts it off by reconnecting your mouths once more. A hand on your knee prompts you to untangle your legs from him, allowing him to pull your panties off in one swift movement. Your dress goes soon after. You feel relatively unexposed, cloaked in the dark of the kitchen, the only light from the fairy lights over the windows. It feels good to be bare with him before you, all your softest parts unguarded, knowing that he’ll treat your vulnerability with respect and relish. When his hand slides up your thigh to where you want it most, you break it off to moan with your head tipped to his, the sharp edge of his jaw against your cheek.

The sounds he pulls from you sound crisper bouncing off the kitchen tiles than they do in the plushness of your bed. There’s a recognition in the clarity. You surrender to the understanding that he can bring you to rapture with the stroke of his hand. You also know it wasn’t always like this, with the profound comfort in knowing every corner of someone’s body, knowing every trick to make them twitch. Many long hours of fumbled stances and awkward moments built the solid foundation here. But now, there’s not a shred of insecurity, no trace of pretense. There’s no one else who could love you like this. It doesn’t take long until you’re trying to muffle your whines in the fabric of his undone button-up and gripping the silky suit jacket on his shoulders, teetering on the edge of your first orgasm of the night.

“I’m right there… I’m-“ you break off to gently bite at his shoulder, shuddering a low, deep sound. 

He shushes you, nuzzling his head into the crook of your neck again. “You can come for me. I‘ve got you, don’t worry, I’m right here.” 

You believe his words, believe them so much that it feels like your heart could break open from it.

You’d dwell on the thought, but as the warm friction of his fingers continues it’s steady pace, you can feel yourself slipping from coherent thought. Your worldview dims to sensations, the compounding pressure in your core swelling until you’re pulling at his jacket like it’s all you can do to keep yourself grounded, and you come. He steadies you with his other arm, pressing you close as you writhe against him.

The world begins to shift back into focus and your head is spinning, words clumsy. “Why aren’t you naked,” it comes out more like a command than a question as you tug at his shirt once more, undoing the smooth plastic buttons and untucking the hem. 

You can hear the satisfaction in his voice. “I’m sorry. I was a little bit preoccupied.” He’s pleased with himself. 

His arms close around you as he speaks. “Do you wanna keep things going here or head to bed?” He keeps his mouth close to your ear, you can pick out every vibration of his vocal chords. He’s using that lower register he seems to use only when it’s just the two of you.

“As hot as it’d be to stay here, my thighs are a little sore from the edge. And our bed is so nice.”

He sighs in agreement. “It is so nice. God, those tiny tour bus bunks really taught me to value a real bed. And getting to fall asleep in your arms.”

“It’s my favorite thing to do,” you speak as he lifts you up, your bare chest pressing to his. The cool evening air fans your bare back as he carries you, and you fill the time by painting his throat with tiny kisses.

Before long, you’re getting gently laid back on your bed, left with empty arms as he shrugs off the rest of his clothes. 

“Dry clean only suit crumpled on the floor,” he says, accompanied with the background noise of friction and fabric, “I’m officially a platinum selling artist, this is the nail in the coffin. Diva status achieved.”

“I think diva status was achieved a long time ago.” You roll your eyes, and maybe he can’t see you do it in the dark, but the tone of your voice probably gave it away all the same. 

“You love me.”

You sigh. “I do.”

Before you know it, his warm body is pressed to you again. He holds you down with his own weight from chest to thigh, hands already wandering. 

His right hand returns between your legs to work you open again, and you cry out, shaking under him as he speaks roughly. “Are you ready for me?”

You nod your head enthusiastically, which is usually enough, but you then realize that the dark of the room is probably obscuring your signals. The steady rhythm of his fingers has your head spinning, unable to form coherent enough sentences, leaving you making sounds of want instead of a clear ‘yes.’ Although, from hundreds of nights spent doing this, you know he knows what you want.

It’s then that he sits up over you, lifting your legs so he’s settled between your thighs. “Guess I’ll have to make sure by myself,” he says, bowing his head to work his wet tongue over you. 

You were drenched already, soaking your inner thighs, but you can feel him spreading it around even more, wet and slick. He rubs his tongue over your clit, warm and steady, and when you try to squirm away from the intense stimulation he pulls you back by your thighs. It’s hard to see in the dark, but you have a feeling his fingerprints will leave bruises, keeping himself buried there. 

Every muscle tense and quivering, you let go of where your fists are clenched tight in the blankets to bring a shaky hand to his hair, trying your hardest not to push him away. He lets up on the heavy stimulation then, leaning his head into your hand and leaving shorter strokes with his tongue. You wish you could see it better, his wide pupils, the rosy blush of beard burn forming on your thighs. You card your hands through his hair, letting the silk strands fall between your fingers. 

When he begins another steady pace, tongue flat and rubbing you just right, you find your words again. “Wait, I’m close,” you manage through the fog of arousal. 

With a wet sound, he lifts his mouth from you, leaning his head against your leg. “But I want you to come.” His face is slick where it meets you, his cheek balanced on your knee.

You could cry from the feeling, hips still shifting in search of just a bit more help to fall over the edge. “Well I want you inside me.” 

He whines at that, clearly wanting to stay where he’s planted between your legs for longer. He’s usually like that, always left unsatisfied, even when you’ve come on his tongue multiple times, even when you’ve been working your hips over him for an hour, on your knees and pressing his head into the bed. Although he may never be fully fulfilled, you make a mental note to let him go down on you for a bit longer within the next few days. You don’t like leaving him whining like that, even with the desire low in your stomach to get filled. 

He’s mostly a shadow before you, the dark of the room causing your head to swim, but when he works a hand over himself, you can tell from the high little sounds in the back of his throat that he’s leaking for it. When he drags the tip through your folds, you whimper, trying to work your hips down to meet him. 

He makes a sound of amusement. “Hold on there,” he says, putting a steady hand to your hip in an effort to keep you still, “I’ve got you. Be patient with me.” 

He does it again, most likely just to rile you up, nudging your entrance but making no move to push in. You writhe again as best you can with him holding you down. The cat and mouse is fun, but when you really need it, you’re not afraid to make it known. He concedes then, taking little time in filling you up. 

With the first few rocks of his hips, you can already feel a crest of pleasure approaching, as much as you want to hold out for it. He brings your legs around him while he leans down to meet you, one of his hands moving to cradle the back of your head, gently tug at the hair there. When he pushes in, you feel him move against you, chest to navel, warm and smooth. His skin is soft under your hands as you dig your fingertips into his back, holding him impossibly closer. 

It’s not long before you’re going slack underneath him, counting on his undeviating pace to do the rest of the work for you as you feel yourself approaching the edge. 

“Are you good?” he asks, voice rugged and strained as he pants against you.

“Mhm,” you manage, nodding your head again, more as a reflex than anything, “please don’t stop.”

You can tell he’s nearly as close as you are, but he picks up the pace anyways, keeping the movement of his hips even until you’re tensing up around him and letting the resulting waves of pleasure wash over you. He holds you through it, hot breath fanning your chest as he tries his best not to let his rhythm stutter. Once you begin to come down though, reaching up to play with the hair at the nape of his neck, it’s time to let him go. 

“Come for me,” you say, and with a couple choked-back moans and rushed bucks of his hips, he does. You can feel every twitch of it as he empties himself inside you. 

He holds you there like that for a minute, as far in you as he can get and breathing hard against you while he reorients himself. You soak in the moment, still treasuring the stretch he brings, warm and full. Then, as his breathing evens out, he slowly pulls out and falls to your side. On pure instinct, you cradle him close, pulling his head to your chest so you can rub comforting circles on his back as he comes back down to earth. He throws an arm lazily over your waist. 

You can feel his cum beginning to slowly drip from you, but you decide to worry about wiping the duvet cover up later, still holding him close. His fancy cologne from the party earlier mixes with slight perspiration and sex, that cocktail of air that you can only get from him, and that you miss so badly when he’s away. You nuzzle your nose into the crown of his head, feeling very much surrounded by him. 

“I love you,” he breathes, leaving a couple small, lazy kisses between your breasts before laying his head back down.

“I love you too. And I’m still very proud of you.”

He hums in response, nuzzling into you. “It was nice getting to see everyone in one place. I guess I didn’t really realize how much goes into something like that, how many people it takes. And it reminded me how much I appreciate everyone who was there. Including you,” he says softly, squeezing the small of your waist comfortingly.

“That’s kind of you.”

“It’s true,” he says.

You hold him harder at that, hot to the touch and compliant under your hands. The lush, inky darkness of your shared bedroom shrounds you with familiarity and comfort. There are some things that the dark can elucidate by blocking out the rest: you couldn’t guess what time of night it is, or what state the room is in. You couldn’t guess what color your lover’s hair is, or see his expression. But with the contented little breaths he lets out with your arms around him, the slow, steady rise and fall of his chest letting you know he’s close to sleep, you know everything you’d ever need to know. That tonight is a good night, that once the sun comes up, there will be a good morning, and that when the light hits again, it’ll light up something beautiful.


End file.
